Anyone who rides snow long enough in Little Cottonwood canyon learns soon enough about the "Y". Whether it is from overhearing others discuss it, seeing ski tracks
in what, from the road, appears to be a near-vertical sliver of snow, or, for the lucky, from first-hand experience, the "Y" is the window into the Wasatch backcountry from the passenger window as one rides up the canyon. It is 3,200 vertical feet from the top headwall to the bottom of the final apron, taller than the top of the tram at Snowbird to the bottom of Gad parking lot in what starts at the road and goes up, mostly in plain view, and doesn't vary more than a few degrees from forty. We've been in a bit of a snow drought in SLC. I hadn't been on my skis in over a week because the snow baked in the sun all day with nothing new to freshen it up. I'm a snob. I only want to ride in it if it is powder! It finally snowed, so yesterday we skied to the saddle between Twin Peaks and Sunrise Peak, skiing a few shots of 5" of pow-pow on top of a carvable crust. It wasn't awesome, only pretty good. It needed more snow. I woke up in the morning around 4:45, and the snow was blasting Sugarhouse. I texted Drew and Tyler. I got a message from Drew. He'd locked himself out of his house the night before, not getting to bed before 2 AM. He'd been sleeping for only two hours before he let me know that he wouldn't be getting up before seven, and that we should let him know where we would be and he might try to catch us. I hadn't heard jack from Tyler, and wanted something worthy to ski so I couldn't go solo, so I looked at the window at the snow coming down, shook my head in dismay, took off my ski clothes and snuggled in back next to Leia. "It'll be nice to sleep in until seven!" I thought in consolation as I spooned in next to her warm body.
Just before I fell back asleep, Tyler calls. He's ready and waiting. He just hadn't gotten back to me. I told him our plan was jacked, and that we'd make a new plan at seven. At that point, there was no consolation about it, it would be nice to sleep until seven! Sorry Tyler.
By 8:30 the sun is up. I feel a bit out of place driving to the canyons in the daylight. Still, though, I'm stoked. We are having our safety meeting on the drive with some Culture playing in the background as we discuss the plan. The Alta snow report says 10" new. On top of the snow from yesterday it will be awesome, and the sloughs will be manageable. A repeat in Coalpit would have been awesome, but it was too late in the day to get there safely. We settle on Maybird, getting laps on easier angles. This plan, though, lacks the urgency that we're beginning to feel. We know that the season can't keep this up forever, and the chance to ride the classic lines shouldn't be passed up. Then, as Drew gazed out the passenger window, he looked back at me and smiled. "The Y!"
I slam on the brakes and pull into the unplowed parking lot. He had spoke in the nick of time. I get stuck in the snow with the truck half-way in, the back-end still out in the road and slowing the canyon traffic on a powder day. It seems deep, and I may not be able to get out easily. "I'm down," is the consensus from all our mouths, so the truck goes into four-wheel and we're in. Committed.
After the treacherous river crossing, we throw our skis on our packs and start booting. There is no skinning on this tour- this time we go on foot. From the bottom I look up. With the first step I get closer to finishing over three-thousand feet of
hiking through snow, sometimes icy, sometimes hip deep, in ski boots with a pack and skis on my back, a height that is over twice the tallest building in the world. On the trek up, there would be only one platform where the tree of us could all stand without the pull of gravity at our heels and the weight of our packs, urging us back into oblivion below. Here we would pow-wow (food, water, rejuvenation). Kicking steps, booting, slogging or whatever you call it cannot sweeten the experience. It's brutal. To know that the step you now take is only one in a string of thousands can be a mental strain on top of the obvious physical strain. The perch offered us a respite from the strain. I understand that "couloir" is the French word for "hallway." I might be wrong. In the Y couloir the application of this term is clear. From our stance in the perch, we looked down on an icy section that we had just ascended. Drew had been putting in the pack below this section, and I took over for the ice. Because he snowboards, he gets to wear soft boots that are more comfortable than plastic boots, but can't punch through the ice like the solid end of a ski boot. The ice is hard, but I can force in three or four inches, and do, making my way slowly toward the perch. During our pow-wow, Tyler makes grim predictions about skiing that section. If one of us lost control on that ice, it would take much speed before he would be pinballing against the sides of the rock
hallway we were in. Drew was certain that it would be fine. My thoughts were aligned with Drew and cautious of Tyler. All though people like the game of pinball, nobody ever wants to BE the pinball! More booting. The snow in the couloir is uneven. In some places it is down to the ice that formed over the last drought while in others it is over hip deep. What had caused this uneveness is explained best by the "angle of repose" principle. Any material substance has an angle of repose, the angle at and below which it will be at rest- sand, soda cans, salamanders and snow. If one of these was dropped from one point and allowed to build up into a cone shape, the angle of that cone would be the angle of repose. If, say, a pile of sand was built up, any sand steeper than the angle of the cone would eventually break-off and tumble down the cone. The angle of repose for snow centers around 37 degrees. The deep sections of snow were deposits of snow from above that sluffed off of the slope because the slope was too steep to hold the snow. The icy sections were the base where the snow was released. The skiing would be great if we could maintain fall-lines in the stuff that was soft enough for turns.
After more than four hours of slogging uphill through snow we near the top. The headwall is the steepest section of the couloir at what I would guess is near 50 degrees. It is so steep that it feels like we are on a ladder. The snow starts to change and the base is less supportable so it is more like a tread-ladder where we fight for each upward step. Tyler is a few steps above me. He is wrestling for purchase and kicks hard into the slope. I watch as a crack starts from his boot and shoots horizontally across the headwall for fifty feet. The top ten inches becomes fluid and moves down the slope like silent water. The headwall, surprisingly, is treed, and I can't see how far the sluff runs as it disappears in the pines and out-of-sight, but it was a lot and was gone in a hurry. Tyler and Drew didn't hear it or see it. The few seconds it took them to respond to my shouts was enough for the slide to be out of gone. Tyler, at least could see the crown and was startled to see what he had done. He looked down at me. My pole was in the slide path, but I was not.
That amount of snow wouldn't bury a person. The fear is getting swept downhill out of control, especially when there are trees and cliffs below. If the snow above me would have went I suppose it could have been enough to knock me off of my feet and send me into a tree. The top of the Y would be a bad place to get hurt fo' sho'. We spend a few minutes stomping out a platform above a tree. This one, unlike the shelter of the first perch, came with its own vertigo. Here we pow-wow. I take some video. Getting skis on is a delicate procedure. Any inability to properly place gear could result in loss of that gear. As well as being a bad place to get hurt, this would be a bad place to see a ski accidentally unlodge and torpedo down the slope! Below us is Little Cottonwood Road. It is a constant point-of-reference on the way up and down the Y. At first in the coulior the traffic is faintly audible, especially as people gear-down to check their speed before the big corner. Further up, there is only an occasionally percussive rumbling to be heard from the bigger trucks hauling luxuries for the resorters at Snowbird and Alta. The road becomes a visual experience like the Peter Pan ride at Disneyland where things are happening but no sound results from it, like an ant farm. I see the tram. I figure Sport is probably skiing right now, but he is far to small to see.
I get first line and opt for the upper bowl, half of which has already slid leaving only an icy base behind. I hoped to ski the fresh snow next to the fracture line, but as I approached it, it all slid as well. I find myself in a predicament. All of the fresh yummy snow has sluffed and ran for who-knows-how-far. The edges of my skis now clawed into icy snow on a fifty degree slope above trees and unknown conditions below. I cowardly slide down twenty feet to where the angle eases off before making my first turn. Still icy. I pull another safety turn. It is still icy and I slide a way on my edges. My stomach unsettles. I steer gingerly away from the trees. Then I hit a soft spot. My turn releases the snow around me and it sluffs at the same speed I am beginning to turn. I make a few turns in my slough and cut out to the side, taking the risk of turning into some small trees. I figure the trees will hold the snow better. They do. I watch the sluff run past me. I cut back into the path because it is still to steep for tight tree turns. The sluffs don't carry much snow with them and soon I am in steep powder heaven. The turns are like falling into feathers. My stomach relaxes. This is what I came for.
I find a safe place to stop and watch my boys. Drew takes a bold line through the trees and blasts into the open slope. He cuts some big, fast turns through a bowl before cutting into safety. Tyler skis the nasty-lasties on my slope. I watch and hear the death turns he performs with precision before hitting the softies on the opposite side of the bowl from me. He charges past me through the pow-pow, being chased by his sluff. For partners, these two bros are golden. Few people are willing and able to get up early for serious backcountry snow on such a consistent basis. They have been the perfect compliment to the consistent stellar snow of 07-08. We continue down in this yo-yo fashion. The road becomes closer and bigger. The couloir is wide enough for all of us to be skiing powder lines. The spots where the sluff piles up are like gigantic pillows to float through, turning us into transient submarines as the snow piles against the chest and from there over the head. Those riding below disappear in puffs of cold smoke. All of this is framed by granite-walled sides, partly cloudy skies above and the huge south face of Twin Peaks as the background. Gorgeous!
Finally the granite walls terminate and the snow spills out onto the apron and down to the river. We stop at the bottom of the apron to look up and to celebrate. A fellow Drew knows from works hiked by and stopped to chat. Out on the road we see Nate and Eliot drive by. It is good to be part of a culture that values the quality of life, and choose a life that includes time outdoors because of all that nature offers, experiences like this. Experiences that will fall short in this and every written description, but one that are commonly understood. Praise to those living close to their dreams!
LIFE IS LONG
Note: For those of you disciplined enough to endure my dribble, I'll let you know that I entered the Powderkeg backcountry ski race. Results and pictures can be found at http://www.bdel.com/powderkeg/
